Omissions of Truth
by Post Reichenbach
Summary: Set during the events of The Empty House, Holmes is describing to Watson just what happened at Reichenbach Falls. But how much of the truth is he willing to admit to Watson or himself?


**Disclaimer:** I do not own Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's characters or plots.

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As he spun the rather elaborate lie, or rather calculated omission of truth, he could not help but wonder at why the doctor had trusted him so absolutely. Here he sat, in Watson's office, the discarded disguise of the ancient, stooped book collector in an empty chair next to him, watching as his closest companion listened to the fabricated events of three years ago.

It was not without some reservations that he concealed what really occurred at those damn falls and some of the immediate after effects. While considering the problem that very morning at Baker Street, he had depleted what was left of the tobacco in the Persian slipper. In the end he had chartered a course into the much more congenial waters of deception. The truth he could barely admit to himself and, as much as he might trust Watson, he knew that confiding in him meant more worry on top of the suffering Holmes' absence had already caused.

Though interest and utter relief were painted plainly across his friend's face, the consultant swore inwardly. He wished he could be done with this necessary yet completely empty precursor and resume life where he had left it.

But was that really possible now? He was not entirely sure, which was an uncomfortable feeling for him. So was the suspicion that the events he was now discussing would never truly be far away.

The water still roared interminably. He stood on the edge, struggling with Moriarty, eventually freeing himself, taking a step back. His foe was nearly at the end of the earth, scrambling to regain his footing. Washing through him, that tenuous relief of one who survives, sure that his opponent was about to meet his doom.

But then Moriarty had righted himself. Holmes had a choice, and approximately half a second to make it.

Taking several quick steps forward he again faced his nemesis. No words passed between them, and there was scarcely a need for any. In the elder man's eyes lay a resignation, a terrible knowledge.

He shoved him, and the professor fell to his death, screams echoing off the rock. After that solitary action, the next few hours he passed as a true automaton. Letting his cold logic and careful planning hold sway over his thoughts, he had managed to evade Moran and, more sadly, Watson and the search party.

As he travelled that night, logic was finally exhausted and with that exhaustion the sentinel abandoned his post at psyche's door. His hands dripped with blood that was not there, his pulse turned alternatively thready and alarmingly rapid. And still all he could hear was the water. The water and the screams which had changed him from detective to murderer and kicked him unceremoniously across the divide between the hunters and their pathetic prey.

He was faced with that black realization that no matter where he may go, how much cocaine he injected, or how many pursuits he flung himself into it always waited for him, turning him into nothing but a hypocrite and a common criminal.

Questioning whether he could ever return to his previous existence became a pastime which occupied his darker days. He had not lied about trying to write. It's true he had been sorely tempted to return to London and recount the entire tale, but when he thought of the doctor it held him back. He had committed the ultimate betrayal, though his victim would never realize it. Watson's idea of him had become just that: an idea supporting a picture that no longer had an artist. Descending into the depths of his addictions and self neglect, it was the doctor he had feared the most. The doctor knew him.

So he had remained dead to London. However, the bait of Moran's mistake had finally lulled him into coming home. Conflicted, he had proceeded through the necessary routine of comforting a shocked Mrs. Hudson and sending word to Mycroft. Then he had begun wrestling with the solution to the problem of Watson. He decided upon his omissions of truth and now was executing his plan, however distasteful. Maybe one day he would begin to believe his own lies just as much as Watson did, but he did not really think so. In the time between this moment and his death, he was sure he'd think of an excusable reason to regret Moriarty's death; boredom, the lack of criminal creativity, he did not care what it ultimately was. Nothing could remove imaginary blood.


End file.
